


Can't Touch This

by VirtualCarrot (Kaoro)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affection, Asexual Relationship, Banter, Communication, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaoro/pseuds/VirtualCarrot
Summary: Crowley will endure anything for Aziraphale. And if his demonic nature disagrees, well, tough.AKA the one where Crowley is allergic to affection. Literally.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 93





	Can't Touch This

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the Ace Omens server for their support, and to Elmo for not only proofreading this but ALSO finding it a summary. Their competency abounds.  
> Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> EDIT: I changed the title because this alternative has been HAUNTING me since I posted and I want peace. It used to be "Rash Confessions," a name coined by Nen.

There’s a cozy teahouse somewhere in the City. Well, there are multiple cozy teahouses all over London, some comfy in a tourist entrapment kind of way, others more genuine if dusty, but this specific one is where they’re seated, happy and relaxed and awaiting their order. It’s the one that matters.

It’s a few streets past St Dunstan-in-the-East. Crowley actually took his foot off the pedal as he drove past it just so he could spare a good look at the plot of the church he desecrated. He found it lush and green over the carefully maintained ruins, vines crawling up the walls just enough to add a casually romantic charm to it, the stone kept from harm by some judicious pruning of their most destructive tendrils. Aziraphale let out a small noncommittal hum at the sight. Crowley’s throat felt achy and he didn’t let them linger.

The first floor of the teahouse is devoid of any other customers, which suits them just fine. It’s dimly lit by poor artificial lighting, bathed in soft shadows that the French windows they’re seated at cannot quite make up for. Outside, the sky is surprisingly clear. The weather has this side of a chilly bite that makes burrowing into a safe, warm, comfy place all the more agreeable. Crowley feels pleasantly drowsy.

“This place is lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs, casting curious glances around, past the bare wooden beams, to the narrow staircase that creaked on their way up, and then over the old chipped ceiling, the fresco past the point of legibility.

It is lovely, indeed. Crowley feels the telling tightness on his skin that accompanies the feeling. At this point, he’s used to it. St Dustan itself already pulses a distant heat on the map of his mind’s eye. Across from him on the table, Aziraphale smolders like a reddening branding iron.

It’s worth it.

The waiter climbs up the steep stairs with a slight huff. It’s the kind of place with a carefully constructed family-establishment feel and student hires as a main workforce. She looks young enough for the part and sets their order in front of them with the overly careful gestures of someone who hasn’t yet gotten past the fear of spillage. A pretty fine china plate of scones follows, beside which she plunks down a small hourglass. Plastic, though that changes the moment her back is turned. It only takes a handwave. Aziraphale smiles bashfully at the sight, the apple of his cheeks tight with the effort of keeping his giddiness in check. They are pink, reddening more and more by the second.

When their eyes meet, Aziraphale’s smile doesn’t grow, cannot grow, too leashed back by a sense of propriety, but the corner of his lips curl upper still ever so slightly. They’re as pink as his cheeks. Crowley’s heart aches, as does the roof of his mouth. He wants so much his tongue feels heavy and thick with it.

The sand trickles down. Crowley doesn’t want to drink alone and his own coffee wouldn’t dare grow cold against his will, so he waits it out, too. The weight of Aziraphale’s grateful, knowing gaze in return is almost palpable.

Eventually, the tea is infused enough to pour. The place is so silent that the sound it makes as it splashes into the teacup echoes against the walls. Aziraphale takes a slow sip, closes his eyes with a sigh of contentment, and then reopens them like a flaring beacon radiating across the bay. 

“This is marvellous,” he says softly, staring straight at Crowley. It’s really unfair that he so unfailingly catches his eyes even past the sunglasses.

Sweat beads up against the collar of Crowley’s jacket. He grunts something back and dips into his coffee. It’s dark and intense, with a delicate citrus-like tang and the discreet bitterness of a roast that may have gone on slightly too long. Overall, not unpleasant.

When he lowers his cup, Aziraphale’s right hand is just far enough on the table to count as a potential offering.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley sneezes.

Crowley sneezes, and sneezes, and sneezes, and sneezes. Bolts up from his chair to try and get some space, but Aziraphale follows instantly, jittery like the idea of not doing so is unthinkable, and radiating concern and such unadulterated affection that Crowley actually trips on a chair on his way away from him.

Aziraphale crouches by his side, worry etched into every single line of his face. The hand he holds out to help Crowley up is as tantalizing as it is alarming.

“Don’t touch me!” Crowley croaks out. Aziraphale recoils like he would to a blow, and it would take Crowley’s breath away if it wasn’t so short and his chest so constricted already.

He hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s affection to be so open, so powerful, so overwhelming, and, really, how could it have been otherwise? Being overwhelmed by events was the story of Crowley’s life, after all, and single-minded focus the story of Aziraphale’s. “Just, give me a minute.”

One minute turns into many more, long enough that by the time Crowley staggers to his feet—on his own—the tea has gone cold in its cup, and the one in the teapot disappointingly lukewarm. As has Crowley’s decidedly unimpressed coffee. He still drinks it, half out of spite, after he drops down into his previously deserted seat. Aziraphale spares him a quick glance, but it’s clearly against his best wishes.

Irritation is good. Irritation won’t send Crowley’s demonic nature into nonsensical fits.

Aziraphale chews carefully on the rest of a scone and dabs his mouth with a napkin the teahouse never provided before he speaks. “Care to explain what happened?”

Crowley does not know where to start. There’s a way to put it delicately. A way that won’t send Aziraphale running for the hills of denial. This thing between them, it’s right there, just ripe enough to be offered to Crowley, ripe enough to bite into and feast upon, and he can’t have it yet but he wants it, wants it to the point of an ache so deep and so sharp it’s worth fighting the mere essence of his self. He doesn’t want it to be taken away. It’s _his_.

“I’m... a demon,” he starts, uncertain, giving out feelers and hoping against all hope for a hint of how best to steer this improvised confession.

“Yes, aardvark, I remember,” Aziraphale replies with affected demureness and an edge of sharpened steel underneath that’s so petulantly hostile Crowley finds himself wrestling with the urge to touch him. Just dart out a hand and graze the tip of his fingers to his face, the back of his hand, the halo of his hair.

He’s so taken with it he loses track of what he’s saying.

“Well... I’m allergic to, er, _affection_ ,” he blurts out, aware of the words that escape him only a beat too late to keep them in. But they’re out now, and sure to push away the one he most wants close. Still, instinct steered him towards a euphemism and he’s very thankful for that. He scrunches his eyes shut, as if that could avert the trainwreck of this discussion. 

There’s a pause. Aziraphale shifts in his seat. “What?!”

He sounds too bewildered for anger or rash self-denial, so Crowley risks an eye open, and then the other. This conversation requires some adjustment; he crosses his arms and slowly sinks down in his seat until he can lean the back of his head against the backrest.

“I’m allergic to affection,” he repeats. “Or close enough. Demons, we’re not equipped to handle it. When it’s ours, it’s easier to manage—not that I’ve exactly had much chance to exchange notes on the subject Down There.” He gives Aziraphale a wry look. The angel’s eyes soften subtly in humor but his face remains stern, encouraging him to go on. So he does. “I guess because it’s already demonic. But when it comes from, er, outside sources, our essence fights it back. Like an infection. Or something,” he finishes lamely with a twirl of his hand.

Aziraphale downs the content of his teacup. From the smell of it, it’s no longer the smoky oolong that he ordered but something a lot more fermented and plenty more distilled.

“ _Any_ affection?” he asks, to which Crowley nods. “But I’ve always…” He starts, then cuts himself off with a haughty glare like he holds Crowley responsible that he came too close to saying more than he intended.

Feeling generous—and like he’s already got more than enough on his plate to deal with, which granted isn’t that much since, as someone who eats in small quantities, he can quickly be overwhelmed by too many over-filled dishes, and that’s how well that metaphor works—Crowley doesn’t push him. “It’s, you know, the boiled frog. Thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but do go on.”

That arched judgemental brow on Aziraphale’s face has no right being as attractive as it is. It’s very distracting, is what it is, but Crowley soldiers on.

“More often than not, it didn’t register. Not really. It came in small quantities and increased slowly over time.” By which he meant millennia. Millennia of self-restraint. Sure, Aziraphale slipped here and there occasionally, but the Englishmen had nothing on him when it came to ingrained denial. “I guess I got used to it. But now…”

 _Now that things have changed_ , he doesn’t say, _now you’re free from Heaven’s influence and I’m free from Hell’s governance, now you’ve allowed yourself to feel this, now you’ve set it loose, that’s another thing_. And it should be so heady, so satisfying, to be loved with even a fraction of this intensity, but mostly, it makes Crowley want to tear at his hair and scream when he’s alone, and flop down onto the ground and lie there when Aziraphale is near.

“Oh Crowley, why didn’t you say so?”

Crowley wants to answer, he really does, but then a wave of tenderness sweeps over him and he winces at the itch of it. He’s not discreet about it either, can’t even begin to downplay it. Aziraphale catches it and his gaze becomes shuttered at the sight. The way he reigns it all in is like a physical pull that leaves Crowley swaying in relief and gritting his teeth in yearning at the same time. He wants it. It is _his_ to have, darn it all. 

And what the heck, in for a penny, as they say—

“I want it, Aziraphale. Anything you can give me, anything you want to give me, I want it, too. And I’ll match it, don’t think I won’t. We have an Arrangement, after all. Balanced in all ways.” He offers Aziraphale a smile, one that’s small, yes, but not weak. It’s toothy, and it’s bold, and it’s honest. Fierce.

The angel smiles back briefly, unhappily. The curve of it is wistful. “It’s hurting you, Crowley.”

“Yeah, well… How do you think the opposite feels, angel? The lack of it?” Crowley rubs the back of his neck. “Terribly unpleasant, let me tell you.”

They share a look. Aziraphale brings his hands to his lap where he tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat, then lifts them back to the table when he realizes. His already perfect posture takes on a martial quality, his back straight and his head held high.

“So what now?” he asks. His eyes are sure and his jaw is set, waiting for the axe to drop. He’s so brave. And so close. It’d take so little to reach out for him and just touch.

Crowley throws his hands out with a flourish. “Desensitization. Exposure therapy. We’ll boil this frog. I know it works, we’ve been doing it for—” _Millennia_ , he doesn’t say, doesn’t want to give too much away. He needs to keep some sort of dignity after all. “—ages. It’s just, going from utter repression to open affection, that was…”

He trails off with a pointed look, and Aziraphale bristles in that tetchy way of his when he feels he’s being made to take on unfair blame. This time, the swelling in Crowley's chest has nothing to do with any sort of metaphysical struggle and everything to do with being overfilled with his own adoration.

The angel snaps. “I couldn’t very well have known, after all, you didn’t _tell_ me!”

“Well, I just did! So there!” Crowley retorts, because Aziraphale doesn’t have a monopoly on petulance.

They stare, neither one willing to look away. The air of the room is thick with tension and it’s ridiculous, they’re ridiculous. They’re so ridiculous they just have to laugh at it. Crowley’s face aches with the grin that overtakes it, and Aziraphale wipes away a few tears that aren’t all entirely due to laughter, but enough.

“Come on,” Crowley says softly, pushing his chair back in order to get up. “Let’s ask for another serving. I know how much you dislike miracle-heated tea.”

“Ah, yes, very well,” Aziraphale agrees happily before adding in a purposeful mutter: “I still don’t see what frogs have to do with this.”

Such fondness should not be allowed to exist in a lone entity. Crowley rolls his eyes in equal parts at Aziraphale and his own self and goes to knock on the wooden panels of the stairwell.

“Hey Miss! We’d like to order something else!” he shouts. It doesn’t matter whether she hears him or not; she’s close enough that the invocation he’s weaving will reach her. The choice whether to comply is hers alone but she seemed professional enough that he doesn’t doubt she’ll show up soon.

The wood is at once smooth and rough under his hand, polished by time and creased by the same. He presses a nail into one of the gouges, hesitates, decides. The carpet scrunches audibly as he detours to the angel’s side instead of going back to his own seat. Aziraphale looks up at him with open curiosity, a small furrow of concern still weighing his brows but his eyes clear and soft. They’ve overcome worse odds. His hands are on the table by the plate of scones, one playing with the edges of his napkin.

It’s the right one.

Crowley doesn’t think, but even if he had, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He cradles the hand in his, delicately, and lifts it to his face at the same time as he bends. They meet halfway. The skin is warm and dry against the lips that he presses there, oh so earnestly, a bit desperately, fully hopeful.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes out, stunned. Emotions rush to the surface of his mind, disrupt the calm mirror of it, gleaming scales reflecting sunshine just below the line that draws the border between the privacy of the pond and the exposure to the outside world. He feels himself boiling over, overcome; shudders against the strains of keeping it all in.

This is an uphill battle he cannot win, not without Crowley’s help, and the demon is very set on being as unhelpful as he can possibly be. It's exasperating, truly, but that's not enough to counter the satisfaction of Crowley’s lean hand wrapped around Aziraphale's plump fingers, demonic thumb caressing the back of his hand over the lingering tingling of that too-brief kiss. He's happy, is the thing, and Crowley's such a stubborn creature, really, there’s only so much Aziraphale can do.

Fondness spills out of him in waves past the cracked dam of his will, that Crowley was expecting, that Crowley was prompting, and who rides them out with a vindictive grin, hand in the angel’s hand to keep himself anchored against the tide until it recedes. It itches and burns like the rash Crowley’s body once dared to experience early on in his stay on Earth, before it remembered itself. Crowley could not care any less. It's his to have.

 _He loves you,_ he thinks to himself. _Feel how he loves you._

“See, this time it went better,” he points out a tad smugly.

Aziraphale shakes his head, charmed against his better judgement. “You silly—” he starts saying, voice tight with relief, then halts. There are storms in his eyes, whirlwinds of emotions, and still he smiles, brimming with affection, shoulders wriggling with it. He squeezes Crowley’s hand, presses it to his cheek and then lets go. 

The waitress finds them seated in a perfect scene of propriety a few moments later. And if Crowley has darker patches of color on his skin that she doesn’t recall from earlier that afternoon, well, who is she to judge? Dermatitis is sure to have made her own teenage years awfully awkward, and her acne probably still flares up at the most inconvenient times when she gets too overwhelmed.

“We’ll have another of everything,” Crowley says, artfully slouched in his chair.

“Again?” she asks, eyeing the almost full teapot of cold tea and the half-drunk coffee. “Did you not enjoy—?”

Ever so polite, Aziraphale beams up at her reassuringly. “Oh no, my dear, it was absolutely lovely, but I’m afraid we got distracted,” he admits. His next words, when he speaks them, are aimed at Crowley, who feels his posture go even more limp as he basks in the knowledge of the angel’s devotion, no matter how leashed.

“But that’s alright,” Aziraphale says. “We have all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a self-fulfillment of an originally light-hearted prompt I threw at the Ace Omens discord in the hopes of tricking someone into fulfilling my fluffy needs. Then I misunderstood that somebody had accepted it and did it myself too, completely forgetting the fun light-hearted aspect of it on the way. Still: cakeS.


End file.
